Derek Dallimore had finally regained control of his life—well, 65% of it

Derek Dallimore had finally regained control of his life—well, 65% of it. And that was enough to breathe easy again, until he discovered that dating in 2030 had also been fully meme-coinified.

Her name was Cassie, a freelance relationship astrologer and part-time loyalty coach with a verified TikTok tarot. She had a follower count Derek would never approach, but she had a soft spot for his digital self-emancipation saga.

They met in person once, which counted as serious in 2030. After three coffee-cube dates and a VR walk through meta-Paris, she made it clear: if Derek wanted to continue dating her, he would need to lock 5% of his meme coin in a smart contract that granted her partial control.

“It’s not a big deal,” Cassie said, eyes twinkling with seriousness. “Just a gesture of faith. You lock the 5%, and I know you’re serious.”

“You want a stake in me.”

“It’s modern romance.”

Derek paced. “And I assume this 5% comes with voting rights?”

“Of course. I need say in where our relationship goes. That’s just consent culture.”

He hesitated. She continued, “If you’re not planning to propose in the next three months, just say so. You’ll get the coin back if we break up. I’m not trying to own you. I’m trying to build trust.”

He remembered what happened last time he didn’t read the fine print.

So he did what any man would do in his situation. He negotiated.

“I’ll lock 5% with you—if you do the same. If we’re both serious, let’s mutually stake coins. Equal trust.”

Cassie blinked. “That’s… traditional.”

“No, it’s reciprocal. You want to make sure I don’t ghost you? I want to make sure you don’t cheat on me with your yoga instructor.”

“He’s a trauma sommelier.”

“Exactly.”

They hashed out the terms: both would lock 5% of their meme coins into a joint smart contract. The contract stipulated:

Either party could opt out at 3 months.

If either cheated, 2% would be forfeited to the other party.

Weekly check-ins via video chat were mandatory, with attendance tracked by AI for authenticity.

No memes involving exes.

All disagreements resolved via meme arbitration (a Twitter poll).

The contract went viral. People called it the “Love Ledger.”

Cassie gained 10,000 new followers. Derek gained three, but one was verified.

But things got tricky. Derek found out Cassie had a clause in her overall coin contract that allowed her mother to override any decisions involving marriage. Derek now needed not only Cassie’s consent, but her mother’s.

“This is insane,” he said.

“No, this is family-inclusive smart romance. My mom’s my secondary shareholder.”

Derek sighed. He opened a chat with her mom.

“Mrs. Wu, I’d like to negotiate a path to majority control of Cassie’s affections.”

Her reply was swift:

“Do you own property?”

Derek started typing. The words came slower this time.

He would need to buy a house—or rather, tokenize 10% of a house—and stake it as collateral in a pre-nuptial DAO.

Cassie texted, “You’re doing great! Most guys never make it this far.”

He smiled faintly. In a weird way, it was progress.

Back in his apartment, Derek stared at the digital dashboard of his meme coin profile. He still owned 65%. Another 5% was now in limbo. And if all went according to plan, he would swap half of that with Cassie when they got married.

“At least this way,” he muttered, “we’re both on the hook.”

In 2030, marriage wasn’t a vow. It was a merger.

And Derek? He was ready to invest.